


Words Unspoken

by nutmeag83



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Communication, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Healing, M/M, Mental and emotional healing, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John and Sherlock have had to learn to communicate using words. After the events of the aquarium and Culverton, words are necessary. But there are still moments where they understand each other perfectly, no words needed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Who needs a real lunch break when there's a plot bunny that won't leave me alone? I read threadoflife's [silence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10468464) (so lovely, as always), and the line “and here they are holding each other tightly as the first night Sherlock was brave enough to take John’s knuckles, press them to his lips, and say, “John,” only his name, but John had understood” and, all of a sudden, I had to tell my own story of kissed knuckles and understanding without words.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, unBrit-picked, and only lightly edited. I hope its readable!

John is sat on the sofa, saying nothing. Well, that’s not precisely true. He’s not using words, but Sherlock can read John fairly well by this point. John is livid. Sherlock had made a mistake, miscalculated, and it had almost cost them both their lives. It had taken the life of the perp. He wasn’t a good man, but that doesn’t mean he deserved to die.

_Still_ , some small part of Sherlock’s brain says, _better the baddie than John or myself_.

It is still difficult, adding himself into the thought. He has learned that he means something—to John, to Mrs. Hudson, to Greg, to Rosie, to Molly, even to Mycroft and his parents, but most of all, he means something to himself. He is worth a life, and not just because Mary had paid for it with her own. He is a human being, worthy of love and respect. And he tries to earn that every day, but today he has failed. He didn’t solved the mystery in time. Another death is on his head.

And John is angry. Once, during that period between Mary shooting Sherlock and Culverton trying his own hand at killing him, Sherlock would have been terrified at a livid John, but John, too, has come a long way in the past few months. They have talked about John’s anger issues, and Sherlock knows the signs of not only an angry John, but also the tells that let him know that John has it under control.

He has taken his shoes off, made tea, and now he is thinking. He has asked for five minutes, and Sherlock has given him his space. Sherlock isn’t frightened of John anymore. But he is worried. Worried that John will leave, will take Rosie away forever. They had agreed to take things easier, to not risk their lives. For Rosie, of course, but also for themselves and for each other. They are rebuilding their friendship, brick by tentative brick. They need to focus on getting better as people and as a unit.

Life has been good lately. John and Rosie had moved back to Baker Street a scant three weeks ago, and everyone has been the happier for it. Sherlock works on Rosie’s development while John does half days at the office. John and Sherlock cook dinner together—a suggestion by the therapist to help with communication that has transitioned in a way for them both to unwind and catch up at the end of the day. They visit with friends and solve crimes and watch films together. They may not be a couple, but they still feel like a family. And Sherlock has probably destroyed it all with a single miscalculation in the heat of the moment.

But he doesn’t push. He waits for John to gather his thoughts and use his words, as he’s been taught.

Finally, after the longest five minutes of Sherlock’s life, John inhales and nods. He indicates that Sherlock should sit on the sofa next to him. Sherlock sits immediately, and John turns so they can look each other in the eye.

“I felt scared,” John begins slowly. He finds it easier to make a list of his feelings. Sherlock listens attentively. “You could have died. _I_ could have died. I felt worried. We could have left Rosie parentless.” John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment, but opens them before speaking. “The adrenaline high felt _amazing_. I’ve missed that. And that upset me. We can’t do this anymore.”

Sherlock struggles not to interrupt. He wants to pacify John. Let him know he knows he did wrong, that he’ll try harder not to do it again, that John can’t leave, but this is John’s time to speak.

“But,” John continues. Sherlock tenses, waiting for John to say that this isn’t working out, that they can’t be a family anymore, “I understand why you made the decision you did.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches. How can John understand?

“I’ve made plenty of decisions in the heat of the moment that turned out badly. We all make mistakes, Sherlock. And while I’m upset at the situation, I’m not angry with you. Nothing that happened can be blamed on you. It was a bad situation from the beginning.”

But, it _is_ Sherlock’s fault. Sherlock can see clearly how he could have prevented their near deaths. Five scenarios have come to mind in the two hours since the event.

John nudges Sherlock with his knee. “Don’t beat yourself up. I know you’ve been running scenarios in your head, that you’ve come up with a slew of ways it could have had a better outcome. But stop that, okay? Hindsight is twenty-twenty. You know that. You did _nothing wrong_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock flounders. Why is John being so nice to him? Anger management aside, Sherlock doesn’t deserve to be let off the hook. _They almost died_.

“What are you worth, Sherlock?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock knows the answer. It’s a script they came up with when either one of them went into self-flagellation mode. He knows he’s starting to spiral. He knows it’s good that John sees this and is trying to help.

“A life,” Sherlock finally answers, looking down into his lap.

“What do you deserve?”

“Happiness. Self-respect. To not be blamed.”

“You are worth _everything_ , Sherlock.”

What? John is deviating from the script. Why? Sherlock looks up at his best friend’s face. John looks earnest. He means what he’s saying, of course. But he also looks something else. What is it? Determined. And. He looks…soft.

“You are _everything_ to me,” he continues, once Sherlock’s eyes are on him. “You and Rosie make me so happy. I miss the adrenaline, but I’d miss you more. I’m not saying this to blame you or make you feel bad. I’m saying this because I almost lost you today, and you deserve to know everything I’m feeling. We promised to get better at that, remember?”

Sherlock nods, but says nothing. There’s a tiny spark of hope, something in John’s words and his tone of voice and the look in his eyes. John and Rosie make Sherlock happy, too. If they kept the status quo for the rest of their lives, Sherlock would be content, happy. But, if John is headed where Sherlock hopes he might be…

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He closes it again, nods, and picks up Sherlock’s hand with one of his own. Sherlock feels a slight tremor. Is it his or John’s? Slowly, John raises Sherlock’s hand, never breaking eye contact. Finally, the hand reaches his lips, and he places a soft kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles.

Sherlock closes his eyes. They use words far more often these days. This is a good thing. Their friendship could not have survived without them. But this? This needs no words. Sherlock understands. He knows what John is saying. When he opens his eyes, John’s eyes are bright with unshed tears. Sherlock can feel his own welling up.

He smiles, flips their hands so that John’s is on top, palm up, and brings them to his own lips. John’s breath hitches as Sherlock’s lips meet his palm. He slides his hand up and cups Sherlock’s cheek. He smiles. Sherlock smiles back.

John brings their heads together until their foreheads touch. They spend moments just breathing.

John’s lips, when they finally kiss, are much as Sherlock has imagined them: warm, firm, both commanding and tentative. Sherlock pours all of his years of love into the kiss, and he knows John is doing the same.

It’s a long time coming, this kiss, this agreement, this moment. But perhaps it has also come at precisely the right time, when they know when words are necessary and when they can be left unspoken. They understand each other better in this moment than they have in seven years. They had come close, in the car park after John shot Hope, back in the beginning. But even then, they had begun to hide from each other, and so the moment had passed.

After all these years, they finally hear the words spoken only in their actions. They will talk, of course. They will talk about their years of pain and silence, they will argue over who gets which side of the bed, they will chuckle through stories of their blindness, and they will softly whisper their awe of each other.

But right now, they speak in kisses and tears and tentative fingers. In smiles and soft huffs of breath. They come together in words not uttered with tongues. And it is perfect.


End file.
